Things best forgotten
by amaretto and coke
Summary: What can go wrong when you've got first-class acommodations, and a cut-and-dried bounty just waiting for you to arrive? Well, everything. Jet, Spike. Yaoi.
1. De plane, de plane

Hey there, folks. This has been reposted to be in compliance with FF.net's regulation, so that means some of your reviews are most likely going to be lost. Actually, they'll probably ALL be lost. Geez.

No, no, I'm not bitter! Enjoy the story.

A yellow taxi, much like the other 27 yellow taxis that crowded the boulevard, was on its way to the airport. This taxi, however, was important. Not too terribly important in its own right, but it held two of the most notorious bounty hunters in the solar system. The driver, who recognized both men, was torn between wanting to ask for a better than standard tip (they _should_ have money, right?), wanting to pry for information (a little gossip never hurt anyone, right?), and wanting to jump out and run at the next light he came to (death and destruction follows these guys everywhere, right?). Fortunately for his own sake, he did none of these things and instead tuned the radio to a jazz station, hoping that the sound of a saxophone blowing would soothe his hammered nerves.

"Turn that off," the green-haired man ordered, but his partner – the guy with the metal stuck to his face – shushed him. "What's wrong with the blues, Spike? You don't like harmonicas?"

Harmonicas! He could sworn that was a sax… How off was he today? These guys were making him nuts. And paranoid. If only he could get them out of his cab, he'd never complain about a slow day again. He pulled off the main road into the freeway exit labeled "Airport".

"…why are we going after this guy, again?"

"2 million wulongs. That's why." The older man addressed himself to the driver. "Would you mind pulling up by EnE, please?"

"Sure, no problem," the cabby said even as he gritted his teeth. EnE. Entrance number Eight. The weapons checkpoint. Just the other day, six cars had been blown up in rapid succession when the safety failed on a rocket launcher. 

"…he's a mind-warp, you say?"

"One of the most proficient." The car screeched to a halt as a troop of gossiping biddies crossed into the first entrance. "That's why he's so hard to catch. He uses the power of suggestion on police to trick them into giving up and going home. Fifty separate hunters sent to find this guy have committed suicide."

Spike frowned as he began to light up. The driver gulped, too afraid to ask him to put it out. 

"We'll need a very good grip on what's real and what isn't to stand a chance. Spike, put that out."

Disgruntled, the aforementioned "Spike" put the unlit cigarette back into the pack and the driver heaved a sigh of relief. Moreso because by this time they were in front of Entrance number Eight. 

EnE was a sterile gray in color, with signs posted everywhere about the danger of the area. Teenagers went skateboarding by as the two men removed their spartan luggage. Jet handed the driver a wad of bills before departing. The man looked the money in his hand.

5000 wulongs. Easily the best tip he'd ever made.

Behind him, a car blew up, sending its collection of Beanie Babies all over the parking lot. Dropping the cash on the floor, he put the pedal to the same and screamed out of there.

Spike hated airports. Particularly the Silver Stream airport. 

Not only was smoking not permitted within a 1000-feet perimeter of the entire terminal, but whenever he went through EnE (and when did he _not_ go through EnE?), it always took close to 30 minutes to get through the luggage check. The weapons check, by comparison, took a grand total of 45 seconds. As if holey socks were somehow more of a danger to humanity than semi-automatic weapons.

Worst of all, in order to keep a "family friendly" reputation, there was no bar. And without a drink to make him forget about the "no smoking" policy, or a smoke to keep his mind off alcohol, Spike Spiegel was an unhappy camper. "Family-friendly. With a weapons checkpoint. Right."

Jet Black, on the other hand, was upbeat. Annoyingly so. He seemed entirely too pleased to be going to meet a man who had been the death of multiple decent bounty hunters. Spike cast his gaze sullenly at the floor.

Their luggage emerged from the conveyor belt, directly into the hands of a young man who looked highly displeased to be at work. He grunted as he lifted their bags, giving the pair a particularly malevolent look. "Whatcha got in there, couple of bodies?"

"Close," Spike replied. "There's a vial of "Black Ice" in there. You know, the stuff that gets on your skin and pretty much causes rashes and ulcers from the outside in? Hey, Jet, there's still no antidote for it, is there?"

"None known," Jet answered woodenly.

The skyhop's attitude improved exponentially. "Where to, gentlemen?"

They were in front of their terminal in a relatively short amount of time, shuffling through a line that including vacationing families, sappy lovers, lonely old women, and lonely old coots trying to pick up said lonely old women. Spike grumbled inaudibly, and Jet wrinkled his brow. "This flight won't be that bad, Spike."

"Why couldn't I just take the _Swordfish?_ We'd be there by now."

"Because we can't spook this guy. The last thing I need is you plummeting from the sky because he convinced you that it was time to take a nap at the controls."

"Sounds like he'd make a great life insurance salesman."

"As a matter of fact, I think that he was." They handed off their ticket stubs to the cheerful agent and filtered out onto the runway. The heat from multiple jet engines made the air shimmer. Spike swallowed thickly and wished for a drink.

They were on the plane sooner rather than later, having been herded into a smaller group early on. He was confused. Where were they headed? The stewardess showed them their seats with a smile. "Here we are. Once we reach cruising altitude, I'll be around with drinks."

"Drinks?" Spike asked, confusion mounting. "Jet, are we in first class?"

The older man nodded. "Someone here owed me a favor."

"Everyone owes you favors, Jet." He dashed forward before Jet could sit down. "I call window!"

Jet frowned. "You should take aisle, considering how much you drink."

"It won't bother me until the in-flight movie." Spike plopped down and stretched out. "Anyway, I can drink you under a table, old man." His partner grinned. "You wish." 

The drink is front of me. Wild Turkey. Straight up, with only a few lonely ice cubes to keep it company. Spike is eyeing a glass of Glenlivet. Or maybe he's looking out of the window. In any case, he's pretending to flirt with the flight attendant, and doing a good job of making her think that he's sincere. And she's giving as good as she gets. With panache. 

A smile is on my lips, despite my misgivings. I don't like to see men play women. I don't like to see women using men. But this is all quite harmless. She's young and pretty and most likely does it all the time without even really thinking about it. And my monotonely charming partner bats his eyes at her, smiles slyly, and thanks her a little more than necessary for simply bringing him a glass of alcohol. I'm amused.

I'm still on my first drink. Spike's had three so far. He likes scotch, but he's been murmuring about wanting a taste of my bourbon. I give him a look that says _Don't even bother to try._ That's most likely why he's staring out of the window like a scolded puppy. His hand bumps mine as he reaches for his drink.

Spike's drink is nowhere _near_ my drink. 

I look at him and he's staring miles into the back of the leather seats in front of us. So I ignore it, and recline my seat a little. First class is amazing. Since the people who actually take first class have enough home training not to vandalize the seats, it's very richly maintained. And spacious. There's actually enough room to stretch out if you feel like it. If you want to lie down flat and nap, go right ahead. There's a console between the seats, fully equipped to hold the plates from your dinner – a three-course meal, mind you – and drinks. I look at the floor. Deluxe cushioned carpet. Orthopedic _and_ ergonomic. Good stuff.

"Jet."

Spike's voice sounds a little impatient, and more than a little slurry. He's probably called me more than once. I snap out of the reverie. "What?"

"Have you…" He trails off, before clearing his throat and trying again. "Have you ever thought about…what sex would be like…with a man?"

I've done no such thing. But he's drunk, and I'm in a good mood. It couldn't do any harm to play along. "Sure. It'd be like sex. Except with a man."

He makes an aggravated nose. I suppose that wasn't quite what he was looking for. I'm holding back laughter right now.

"You know, that stewardess thinks we're gay."

"That's wonderful." I sip my bourbon slowly. I'm thinking about some peach brandy next.

He trails a long finger along the underside of my chin. I turn my head to voice a mild protest…and meet his lips. 

His hand takes possession of the back of my head, daring me to pull away. 

Our lips make contact several times. Briefly. He's requesting an audience with my tongue, but I won't give in just yet. He _is_ drunk, after all.

Is he?

We both hear tittering at the same time, and we look up. The cute stewardess is standing there, cooing. "Aww, you guys. Do either of you want another drink?"

I'm too flustered to blush. Spike is too brazen to blush. He still hasn't taken his hand off my head. "Lemme have another scotch, pretty please."

"Of course." She smiles. "Another Wild Turkey for you?"

"Actually – " I adjust myself in the seat, managing to squirm away from Spike at the same time. "Do you have any flavored brandies?"

"Yes. We've got a terrific blended brandy that I think you'd just love. It's peach."

"Sounds terrific." She leaves and I look over at Spike. He's sulking, staring out of the window. I don't bother to speak to him. The only thing that I want to talk to at this point is a snifter full of room temperature Georgia Peach Brandy.

The in-flight movie's running at this point. And it's terrible. But that's to be expected. I eat the London Broil that lies contentedly in a small puddle of gravy. Spike went with fish, and got a fillet of grouper. He's eaten it all and started drinking again, prompting a comment from our eager flight attendant. "Are you sure that your friend's okay? He's had six scotch rocks."

"He'll be fine. Does it all the time." I'm a little surprised by how cool my voice sounds. Almost as if I don't care that my best friend is trying his hardest to develop alcohol poisoning right next to me. She smiles apologetically and heads elsewhere. 

He hasn't looked at me since the food arrived, nearly thirty minutes ago. I'm not so sure how the atmosphere became so frosty, but I'm not concerned enough to try to break this wall of ice. No, I'm lying. I'm concerned, but I'm too stubborn. If he wants to not talk, we can not talk. I look his way and see his reflection in the window. He looks tired. Broken. What's on his mind? That woman? The Syndicate? Do I really want to know?

We sit there and don't speak. The food's done and the plates have been cleared and I'm making the acquaintance of my brandy glass once again. Spike shuffles his feet, prompting me to look his way. His eyes are moody. "Jet, why are we after this guy again?"

"2 million wulongs. That's why."

"We could make that by doing five bounties with combined better odds than coming out of this one alive. Why are we doing a suicide mission?"

I open my mouth to answer, but he's still talking. "You yourself said that every hunter who accepted this mission is now dead. And if this guy's such a talented mind bender, how has anyone come away with viable information about him? What guarantee do we have that this whole thing isn't one big setup? Who gave you the buzz on this guy anyway?"

The last question isn't rhetorical. I swallow the last drops of brandy before setting my glass aside. "A partner. A partner who owed me a favor."

"How do you know they weren't just welshing on the debt?" His eyes are less self-pitying, and more angry. "This whole thing stinks, Jet. I can't believe you haven't noticed it. There's too many numbers that don't add up."

I look at him again and shrug. My body feels quite heavy. The brandy, maybe? I _was_ pretty tired before we ever got started today. "If it makes you feel any better, they raised a pretty big stink when I told them that you were coming. They wanted me to go alone."

"Jet, for god's sake…!" He's getting a little loud at this point. People are beginning to look our way curiously. "Can't you see that this is a mistake? What's it going to take to make you see?"

"Uh, guys…" The stewardess is hovering nearby, with a slightly sheepish expression on her face. "Um…I know you guys are…um, tight…but…could you keep the argument down? We've got a few people trying to hear the movie."

I'm too tired to blush. Spike's too mad to blush. So we both nod, and she goes away again, giggling. Spike smacks his forehead. "I don't believe that just happened."


	2. A night in white satin

Chapter 2: A Night in White Satin

A "Moody Blues" reference. Although, for a moment it made me think of the seriously clichéd idea of an older man bringing in his new lover to – moonlight pouring in the window and white satin sheets. (I've read too many absolutely horrid X-Files fanfics.)

What the hell is going on here?

We're in another cab, on our way to the hotel. Jet's informed me that we're going to be staying at La Maison Vert. "The Green House". It's the only four-star hotel in this city. It's very likely the most expensive hotel in this part of the world. This is not where ex-cops and current fugitives go to shack up on bounty hunts. When I remind him of this, he shrugs it off. Yet another friend who owes him a favor. Exactly how many people were you a fall guy for, Jet?

We check into two separate rooms, but we're informed that our rooms are connected. Great. That means I can hear him snore all night. Just what I need. The buzz from the scotch is gone and I'm feeling sour. And disgusted. I can't really explain why, and that disturbs me. Maybe I'm antsy about this mission.

Maybe I'm antsy about Jet. 

He's been acting funny too. Normally, he's the one who uptight. He wants a plan, a structure, something solid. Jet _never_ plays things by ear. Now, he's perfectly fine with just coasting along. 

Warning bells are going off in my head, and I don't know how to stop them. So I unpack my clothes, hanging them carelessly in the closet. Why Jet wanted me to bring along formal wear is beyond me. I'd love to ask him, but considering the current state of confusion we're in, it might be pointless.

A knock on the connecting door catches my attention. I open it, and there he is. "Spike, there's going to be an open party tonight in the casino. All hotel guests are invited. You wanna go?"

There's a _casino_ here? This is definitely ranking in the top three of all-time 'most bizarre bounty hunts.' We're not making plans to catch this mind blending freak. We're not wondering how to avoid being slaughtered when we actually began to go after him. We're going to get dressed up to go mingle with people who wouldn't give us the time of day if they passed us on the street. And speaking of which, where did Jet get all of this money to throw around? That cabby nearly crapped his pants when he saw his tip.

I want to gamble, though. Maybe it'll get my mind off how rotten this whole thing smells. And most likely there'll be free drinks. I agree. "Wanna meet by the elevators at 10?"

I nod and shut the door. I suddenly get a whiff of myself and nearly gag. Is that what I usually smell like? I'd better shower, and fast. 

The hot water plasters my hair to my scalp and sears my skin, but I don't notice. I'm still thinking about the ride here. Jet was awfully quiet the whole time. For him, anyway. He hardly had a thing to say for most of a five-hour flight. What was on his mind? And when I kissed him…why did it feel so incredibly…emotionless?

He didn't get mad, which I should be grateful for. Jet's a pretty understanding guy, but "drunkenness" isn't exactly a 'get out of jail free' card with him. But I was hoping for _some_ reaction. Preferably hot burning lust, but failing that, I would have gladly taken a tongue-lashing in lieu of indifference.

__

He doesn't want you. He made that abundantly clear.

I shake my head and water goes everywhere. If that's how he feels, fine. I don't want to kiss him again. It was a mistake.

I repeat that aloud, trying to convince myself. "It was a mistake." My lips press together in a grim line, and instantly I feel the fullness of his lips against my own. The cool metal surrounding his eye, against my own hot cheek. The coarse hair of his beard against my chin and the sleek skin of his bare scalp cupped in my hand. 

At least I think I can feel it.

I want to kiss him again. Who am I fooling?

I'm standing by the elevators. It's 10:25. And Spike's late.

It doesn't really matter, though. This affair's likely to go on well past one a.m. And gambling doesn't stop just because it's dark outside. I adjust my bow tie and straighten out the sleeves on my shirt. It's white satin, one of the nicest dress shirts I own. I've worn it once. With…her.

Who's 'her'? I can hardly remember her name. I seem to be forgetting a lot of things today, which is strange for me. I can't remember the name of the in-flight movie. I can't remember the name of the brandy I was drinking, which is a shame; I was looking forward to having more of it. I can't remember why I suddenly felt the urge to bring along a tuxedo, considering that I had no idea this function was going on tonight.

I do, however, remember Spike being angry with me. More than once. I'm not sure why. It bothers me, but not much.

"Jet."

He's finally here. And he looks…different. I squint a little. Is he actually wearing his Syndicate uniform? It's like his usual suit, except he's wearing a three button waistcoat, decorative fob chain and a matching floor length coat. He looks like the Spike Spiegel version of Vicious. He looks stylish. He looks sexy.

__

Sexy? Where did that come from?

We enter the elevator, which is mostly glass and positioned location-wise to give passengers an optimal view of the two lowest floors. It moves slowly, and Spike looks uncomfortable. I wish I knew why.

"You look good."

"So do you," I answer. He looks up at me, with a disconcerted expression on his face. I must have hit a pretty sore nerve at some point. Maybe while I was drinking on the plane. Something about Julia, maybe?

I can't remember.

The elevator stops on the fourth floor, and a very pretty lady, wearing a strapless, beaded gown, enters. I look at her for a few moments before comprehension strikes. It's the stewardess from the plane. She recognizes us immediately. "Hey, you two."

Spike smiles at her, but I can see through the mask. His grin is more false than that glass eye. "What are you doing here?"

"Layover," she replied. "All of the Silver Stream flight crews stay here in between flights. My next flight's not for a few days, so I'm going to the party." She smiles, moves in a little closer. "I suppose you guys were headed there as well?"

We nod, mutely.

"You both look very nice."

I look away at this point. Spike takes up the slack and begins a conversation with her, but I don't want to bother. I can't remember enough of anything to have much worth saying. 

This should bother me a lot more than it does right now.

The lights in the grand ballroom are blazing. The machines are ringing cheerfully, as voices yell out in joy and anguish. Dealers are calling for bets, people are shouting out numbers. Human drama, shaken and stirred at the push of a button.

Spike's gone in the direction of the blackjack tables with the flight attendant tagging along behind. He's still not speaking to me, but I can't be bothered to care anymore. The one-armed bandits are calling me, and their siren song is too much to resist. I place myself in front of one and slip off the glove that covers my metal hand. I've got about fifty tokens on me right now, but I plan to increase it. And quickly. I touch the lever with a grasp that borders on reverence. It hums with a rhythm that I can only feel through this hand. 

There are some benefits to losing an entire limb. Precious few, granted. But being able to tell when a slot machine's going to be a winner is an excellent trade-off.

A waiter comes by with a shoulder tray full of drinks. "Sir, would you like anything in particular tonight?"

I pause for a moment, and my arm burns. A winning pull just went by. Damn. "What would you recommend?"

"We've serving complimentary mimosa, single-liquor calls, and mixed wells all night. If you prefer our better wines, imported beer or champagne, the first one is free."

I jerk my arm, and the machine jingles out 75 wulongs worth of tokens. My timing's a little slow just now. "Do you serve peach brandy?"

"As a matter of fact, we do. Would you prefer Georgia Peach?"

I like this guy already. 

A sip of brandy warms my stomach. Two more quick swallows, and the glass is completely drained. The waiter, whose name is Nikolai, is by my side, watching me play. "Man, you're amazing. I can't remember the last time I saw anyone do so well on these slot machines."

"I can't remember a lot of things right now," I reply as I hand him ten tokens. He pockets them and picks up my glass. "More Georgia Peach?"

"Please."

"I'll be right back." He turns back and says in a lower voice, "Thanks for the tips. To be such rich bitches, this bunch sure tips badly."

I chuckle to myself as he leaves. I suppose if I was eight thousand wulongs down, I wouldn't be too concerned about tipping on a free drink either. It's pretty obvious, at least to me, that this casino is rigged. No wonder they're so eager to hand out the premium liquor; they'll more than make up the loss through the back end. But fortunately, I've done a good job of beating the system without being too obvious. I've played pretty well tonight, and I'm ready to haul my buckets to the cash-in counter and collect.

I hear a grumbling sort of sigh behind me, right before I smell an unpleasant combination of alcohol and body heat. Someone plops down in front of the machine to my left, takes a few of my tokens out of the winner's tray, and feeds them into the slot. I watch as he loses four times in a row before he slumps against the display. His face is drawn and pained as our eyes meet. 

Nikolai comes back by with my snifter, but Spike relieves him of it, gulping down the brandy in one go. He sets the empty glass back in the surprised man's hand. The waiter opens his mouth to speak, but I wave him away. "Friend of mine." 

The explanation seems to be enough, as he nods quickly and goes off in search of other customers. Spike makes a sudden jerk and kicks one of my many pails of tokens. He looks down, eyes wide.

"How the hell did you get all this money?" he asks in a garbled voice.

"Because I wasn't playing cards drunk," I tell him. "Help me carry these."

He does, following me silently to the counter. I'm only the fourth person to come by this way tonight, I'm informed as I hand over ten buckets of winnings. Apparently 'take the money and run' isn't a terribly popular saying around these parts. The cashier hands me a thrice-counted stack of bills, and Spike whistles shrilly. "35 grand? Damn, Jet. What'd you start off with?"

"50 wulongs."

He shakes his head, morose. "I had 2500 and I was winning, but I got sloppy…"

"In more ways than one, obviously."

He doesn't answer as he follows me to the elevators. I have to help him in, seeing as how he doesn't have the balance to walk in a very straight line anymore. I take my metal arm from around his shoulders, but he's still hanging on to me. He's clutching me. As if he was drowning. 

Maybe he is. 

I try to get him to let go, and his grip tightens. I laugh, nervously. "Spike, we can't go to our rooms like this. Let go."

He looks at me, with that expression that makes me wonder what it is that I can't remember. It's full of ire and bitterness and deep hurt and old wounds that haven't healed. I've done something to hurt him, I know that much. So why don't I know what I did? Any other time that Spike Spiegel is angry with me, I can name the exact time, place, and tone of voice that I used on him. But this time, there's…

…nothing.

I flinch as his breath hits me in the face. It's hot and it reeks of stale smoke, sour-smelling whisky and the unmistakable putrid odor of vomit. His voice is close to pleading. "Jet, don't you remember what happened on the plane?"

I think back, desperately. There was a stewardess…and there was brandy…and there was London Broil…and Spike was mad…but why? There isn't a single cohesive thought in there. I shake my head. "I'm sorry. I don't."

He snarls, with a feral glint in his mismatched eyes. "You think that's fucking _funny,_ Jet? I'll bet you had a good laugh about me with that bitch Elayne. Oh, wait, you don't know who she is either, do you."

That isn't a question, but I shake my head anyway.

He shoves himself away from me, throwing his unsteady self right into the glass wall. My instinct is to go to him, to ask if he's alright. But I fight it; right now it would be quite unwise to approach him. "She's the fucking _stewardess,_ Jet. You spent a good hour looking up at her tits. You didn't see her name tag?"

I look away. I'm not going to encourage this. He goes on.

"First-class my ass. I'll bet she was _your _favor, wasn't she? What did the two of you do, wait until I was in the bathroom and find a way to fuck up my head?" The elevator stops at our floor and he makes a mad dash for the open doors, tripping on his way out. This time, I help him up, but he immediately pushes me away again, staggering down the hall.

I can't stand this anymore. "Spike!" I yell. "Spike, what happened on the plane?"

A shouted "Fuck you!" is the only answer I get. Cursing, I go to my room, but remember not to slam the door just in time. People are sleeping, after all. 

I run in my room and stumble as quickly as I can in the direction of the bathroom. I can feel my throat contracting, warning me that I only have a few seconds left before I disgorge my stomach contents and my dignity all over the floor. Fortunately, I make it to the toilet before my body forcibly rejects all of the alcohol that I've been pouring in over the course of the day.

__

That moron…

He was right fucking _there!_ He wasn't anywhere near as drunk as I was! How can he tell me 'I don't remember' with a straight face?

__

He doesn't want you, Spike. You should know that by now. He's trying to let you down easy.

I heave so hard that I have to clutch the toilet seat to keep from pitching forward and falling in the bowl face first. Dimly, I hear pounding on the connecting door. Jet must have opened his, but he can't get through mine unless I let him in.

"Spike!" a muffled voice calls. I can't answer immediately as my stomach lurches again. But as soon as I can catch my breath and spit out the bile in my mouth, I shout, "Leave me the hell alone, Jet!"

He won't leave me alone. I know that much about him. I clench my teeth as my body gives me yet another sharp warning. The muscle contractions are enough to make me shake.

I hear a distant sigh as I drop my face towards the bowl. 

There are no more knocks on the door.

I've brushed my teeth four times, and I still can't get the taste of vomit out of my mouth. Instead, I torture myself in another way: staring in the mirror. I feel like shit, and I definitely look it. My hair, never exactly the paragon of haute couture, is limp and bedraggled with sweat. My eyes are bloodshot and puffy, both from the alcohol and from my rendezvous with the porcelain throne. My sinuses are completely clogged, yet somehow my nose is running. My throat is raw from all of the acid that's been flooding through it.

I croak out a laugh. I couldn't look any more pathetic if I had been crying for an hour.

It's nearly two a.m. And there hasn't been a sound from Jet's room for a long time. He's not even snoring. I wonder vaguely whether or not he's gone out. With all of the craziness that's gone on today, it wouldn't surprise me if he had. But I'd like to _know._

I walk over to the connecting door and open my own, raising my hand to knock on his. But there's no need, because he's standing right there. Silent. Solemn. Sad. I'm too stunned to put my hand down right away. So we stand there for a few moments, me with a hand frozen in mid-air, and him, stock-still.

My sniffling is the only sound.

My hand falls limply by my side, as he turns away to go sit on his bed. He hasn't invited me in just yet. But he also hasn't told me to get the hell out of his room. I suppose that's a good sign. So I take his permission for granted, and walk over to him. 

He's not looking at me. He's staring down at his hands, the metal one intertwined with the fleshy one. 

"Jet," I rasp out, and he looks up at me. I'm rather surprised to see that he's calm. Unhappy, but composed. I was expecting anger, disgust, or guardedness…but no, he's just looking at me. "You really don't remember the plane ride here, do you?"

He sighs, his shoulder drooping about an inch. I'm scrutinizing his face as he prepares to answer. It's got that same look he's had every time I ask him this question: sincere puzzlement. "I don't, Spike. I've got these bits and pieces, but it's like…they're jumbled. I can't recall a single event on that plane from beginning to end."

I can't comprehend this. He's not being disingenuous. It's like parts of his memory have been snatched away. I try again. "Jet, that watch in your pocket, where did you get it?"

He thinks for a moment. "She gave it to me. But…I don't know who she is. And I want to throw it away, but I said I'd keep it until it stopped or she came back. But…" He shook his head. "If she comes back, I don't think that I'll even know her."

My heart thunders. This can't be! Jet would never forget about Alisa! What the hell's happened to him? "What was your old nickname in the ISSP?"

His face looks strained, as he grasps for memories that aren't there anymore. "Red Bull…I think?"

"Shit, Jet," I murmur. This is bad. Really bad. "Why are we in this hotel?"

He looks around, as if the answer might jump out at him. "We're on a hunt, right?"

Success! "And why are we after this guy, again?"

"…it's a guy? I could have sworn it was a woman…"

I gulp. Did this guy's powers extend far enough to affect people who weren't even near him yet? But now that I think about it…Jet never told me where our quarry actually _was._ No physical description. No _modus operandi._ No location. All anyone seemed to know about this man was that he played mind games, and he killed people.

I look into his eyes again. Was his mind wiped? Or did he ever know?

He looks back at me, with a blank, vaguely disturbing stare. His eyes are…wrong, somehow. They're almost blank. There's no comprehension there. This is really scaring me. I shake him by his shoulders. "Jet. _Jet._"

His satin shirt slides in my grasp, and he's about to ask me a question. I let go; I want to hear this.

"What did I say on the plane to make you so mad, Spike? I would apologize…but I don't know what I did." His voice is meeker and quieter than I've ever heard it. This doesn't sound like him. This is horribly wrong.

__

…but don't you want him to know, anyway? Admit it, you want to kiss him again.

I'm standing near him, just a little way from his face. It's too tempting, especially when he swallows nervously. I begin to back away from him. I can let this go if I leave right now. 

But he restrains me, with almost zero effort. "Spike, whatever it is, _say it._"

I've lost. I climb onto his lap and tilt his head upward, kissing him hard. He makes a little, surprised gasp, but this time our tongues meet. 

I can feel his metal hand on the small of my back. His arms wrap around me and hold me steady as he lies down backwards, taking me with him. Our kiss is growing more frantic. I'm trying to get his shirt open; he's working our hips together.

I finally manage to get the last button open, and the white satin shirt makes its new home on the floor on the other side of the bed. Jet uses his considerable weight advantage to roll us over so that he's on top. His fingertips lightly skim the waist of my pants. But his eyes are all wrong. They're not full of lust. They don't hold any guilt or shame, either. They're not even contemptuous. They're just…staring at me. Unseeing. Unfeeling. Indifferent, even as he caresses me and makes me moan. 

I hate it. I hate my treacherous body for submitting to this. I hate him for having such a strong yet unconscious grip on my emotions. I hate the look in his eyes. This will be just another event that he won't remember.

He's kissing me now, and despite what my mind has to say, my body won't listen. I hear my voice crying out for him as he pleases me without even knowing about it, and I hate myself. I don't want to be his one-night stand.

__

But you want to be something_ to him, don't you? You'd better take what you can get._

He's got my pants around my ankles at this point, and the realization of what's about to happen strikes me with bullet force. There's no way I can let this continue. If I could just say "no", he'd listen. I know he would. 

He grasps me with his real hand, and to my horror, I hear myself begging, "Jet, please…do it."

We both come to a dead stop as the fire alarm suddenly goes off, shattering the sweltering silence in the room.


	3. Invisible Touch

Chapter 3: Invisible Touch

- Both the chapter name and the song mentioned therein are references to the fantastically fantastic group "Genesis". Don't worry, this isn't going to turn into a songfic.

- The hotel lobby experience with lots of P.O.'d guests is based on something that actually happened in my current job. Gee, that was fun. Not.

The lobby was filled to overflowing with guests: some sleepy, some incensed. Meanwhile, a high-pitched screech filled the air as an electronic voice warned patrons to leave their rooms immediately, and not to use the elevators. 

Having been drawn into this den of confusion, Spike Spiegel and Jet Black had both ended up in the lobby. Jet was nude from the waist up, clad solely in his black dress pants and drawing quite a bit of attention from the ladies present. Spike was fully dressed, and quite uncomfortably so. He had had a difficult time getting his pants back on while trying to run down the stairs.

__

I just nearly had sex with Jet Black. 

He sat down in one of the last remaining seats, drawing a dirty look from an overweight man who had also been moving that way. Ignoring this, he ran both sweaty palms through his frizzy hair, trying to dry them. He ended up catching four fingers in four different tangles.

__

How the HELL did that happen?! God, we gotta get off this case. It's been nothing but trouble since we started it!

Elayne, the stewardess, was also in the lobby, in slightly better shape than most. She had been in the casino, and by virtue of that was still completely dressed. She walked right over to Jet, physically jostling some other women out of the way to get there, and earning herself a few catty remarks. "Bitch" could be heard echoing through the din, more than once. She turned on her multi-watt smile as the big man turned to face her. "Ooh. You looked good before, but now you look better."

"Mmm."

"You left the party early," she pouted.

"Mmm."

"Where's that other cutie-pie? …Oh, there he is, on the couch. Mind if I speak with him, too?"

"Mmm."

"Don't get jealous," she giggled.

The swarm of women, upon seeing Elayne abandon the prize, edged in a little closer. Spike noticed this, but just barely. Three fingers were free; the last one was held more securely than in a Chinese finger trap. He fretted, wishing for a drink. Or a smoke. Or both. 

His smokes were in his room. The casino had cut off his drinks after he threw up in someone's bucket of tokens. And that damned flight attendant was coming his way with the look of a wolf that had just spotted a lamb. 

The waiters from the casino were also in the lobby, handing out black coffee. He accepted a cup with his free hand.

"Aww, you're tangled? Want some help?" Without waiting for him to answer, Elayne was raking her slim fingers through his hair, effectively unsnarling it and freeing up his hand. And of course, it was his middle finger that had been stuck. She smacked his hand playfully. "Bad boy. We don't even know each other yet!"

Spike wanted to punch her, but he was too uncoordinated. He drank his coffee. It was bitter and strong and did absolutely nothing for his hangover. He gagged and set the cup in a discreet place. All it would take to knock it over was a little jostle. "You'll have to forgive me, Elayne, but right now I think that I need a smoke. I'll be back." He left quickly as the overweight man began to move in the direction of the vacated seat. Maybe he could bum a smoke from one of the desk clerks.

The lone clerk on duty looked scared as Spike approached. "Sir, I'm terribly sorry for your inconvenience. If you would like –"

"Save it," Spike cut in. "You got a smoke and a light?"

The clerk handed them over gratefully, and Spike walked in the direction of the front door. There were shouts behind him, and the clerk made a tiny shrieking sound as two of the guests jumped off the couch and began to threaten each other aggressively. Apparently, a young lady had gotten coffee spilled on her beaded dress, and was arguing with a rather large man about it.

"You stupid bimbo, I didn't spill any damned coffee on you! I'm not even drinking coffee!"

"You call me a bimbo again and I'll knock you on your fat ass!"

The sounds of people egging the fight on, and security running into the lobby were muffled as the glass door slid shut behind him, and he exhaled a long puff of smoke. Sometimes it was good to be such an accomplished pickpocket. It definitely made for great practical jokes.

"You got another one of those?"

He looked up. Jet was nearby, flesh covered in goosebumps as a cool breeze blew through the colonnade. Spike shook his head, and handed Jet the cigarette. His partner took a long drag before handing it back. Behind them, chaos raged. Fire trucks were pulling into the entrance of the hotel.

"Spike." Jet called his partner's name, while staring down at the ground. "Was that all we did on the plane? Just kiss?"

"Yes," Spike said after a moment's hesitation. He had wanted so badly to lie, but somehow…he couldn't. Jet had too much stress right now without being tricked into a relationship.

Jet sighed and rubbed his head. The main doors opened as two fire crews came tromping in. "It's weird, Spike…I'm having these memories of things, and I know they're wrong, but I can't seem to find another way to think about them. Like, there's a guy called Fad, and he was a…cook. In a restaurant that I went to as a child. And there's a woman called Alisa, who helped me after I lost my arm. She was the head nurse in the hospital, I think. And there's a name that keeps going through my head…'Black Dog'. But when I think of that name, I think about a little Welsh Corgie."

The cigarette fell from Spike's open mouth. "Jet, my god. All of those memories are completely wrong."

"I know." Jet sat down with his chin in his hands. "But when I try to think of the right way for them to go, I don't get anything. It's like…a jigsaw puzzle gone haywire. And yet…since that's the only way things are in my head, I wonder, how else could they be?" 

"Jet," Spike interrupted. "Who told you about this bounty? Who was it exactly?"

"It was a lieutenant named Roderick. I used to be his mentor back in the ISSP. He gave me a case file to study because all of the verbal information that I could get from other officers was constantly changing, and inconsistent. They would remember things, and two days later they _couldn't_ remember things. And every statement, every report, _everything_ contradicted. The little hard evidence they had on this bounty was gleaned under hypnosis, and kept under lock and key."

Spike jumped up, excited. "That's the first clear thing you've told me today!" He paused. "But why is it that you can remember _that?"_

Jet shook his head, inconsolable. "I don't know. It's just there, in my head. The question is, can I trust it?"

Spike's facial expression became somber again as he really began to understand the real potential of this problem. If their quarry could manipulate memories at will…no wonder all of those bounty hunters were dead. Old ghosts… He suddenly found himself of thinking of Julia and Vicious. What if this guy was in _his_ head, twisting _those_ memories around? He shivered. "Jet, I really, _really_ think that we need to quit now. This is too dangerous. Look at what he's done to you already. If we continue, none of your memories may ever be the same."

His partner shook his bald head, infuriating Spike. "I can't let it go, Spike. That's why they called me the 'Red Bull'. I'm tenacious."

"Damn it, Jet!" Spike grabbed the older man by the shoulders, prompting a startled, wide-eyed look. "Your nickname is not 'Red Bull', it's 'Black Dog'! Alisa wasn't a nurse in some hospital, she was the one who gave you that watch! And the Welsh Corgie is called 'Ein'! Don't you know _any_ of this?" As Spike glared at Jet, he was confronted with that helpless look of bewilderment once more, and all of his anger subsided immediately.

"I…don't. None of what you just said sounds right."

His heart thumping hard, Spike tried again. "Do you remember what happened thirty minutes ago?"

Jet cringed; it was plainly obvious that he didn't. "You were mad."

"And?"

"And throwing up."

__

"And?"

"And the fire alarm went off. I don't know what happened to my shirt, and I need to get it back. Did you borrow it?"

Spike ground his teeth together. _Shit…_

I approach the desk clerk once more to beg a smoke, but she looks quite frightened by my advance. "Sir, I'm so sorry for your inconvenience –"

"Don't worry about it." I dismiss it quickly, and visible relief floods into her pale grey eyes. "Oh, sir. I've had such a horrible night, and it's only my second week on the job."

"I'll bet," I mutter. "Can I get another cig out of you?"

She makes a sympathetic, but negative face. "Everyone's been bumming them out of me. I don't even have any left for _me._"

"That sucks." I reach in my pocket and come across six errant tokens. "What brand do you normally smoke?"

"Phillipi."

I look at her again. She's slim and cute. Phillipis are strong. It doesn't quite add up. "Just the standard box?"

"100s. Light."

Ah. Figures. I crack a smile and head back towards the casino. There's a cigarette vendor right near the door. I can make someone happy tonight, I suppose.

After trading the tokens for an equivalency of wulongs and buying the smokes, I walk back towards the lobby, bumping into someone as I exit. I say, "I'm sorry," more out of reflex than real concern. When I don't get an acknowledgment, though, I turn around to see whom I hit.

It takes me three looks to find him. He's a drab, colorless sort of fellow, the stereotypical number-crunching paper-pusher. The kind of man who drives a Porsche so that for once people will actually _see_ him coming. I scratch my head at his silence and try again. "I'm sorry. I didn't even see you."

"No one ever does," he says sadly before walking away.

I stare after him for a few minutes. Shame, really. He's probably the owner of the hotel.

I wander up the stairwell to the sixth floor and pull my room key out of my pocket. I've forgotten something again. And this something is really important, but nothing is coming to mind. I sigh as I get undressed and hang the tuxedo in the closet neatly. 

Twenty minutes later, I'm showered and my teeth are brushed and I'm ready for bed. Well, I don't want to go to sleep, I want to talk to Spike. But he's mad again, even though he hid it a little better this time. And I just really don't want to deal with him being mad. I'm afraid that I'll wake up and not know who _he _is next.

Sighing and feeling sorry for myself, I put the sheets back and crawl into bed. As I try to get comfortable, I realize that even with a king sized bed, I'm still too big to lie down straight. I turn my body diagonally, and something white catches my eye.

My satin shirt is on the floor on the far side of the bed. That's strange. I don't throw my clothes around. Especially not this shirt. Because _she_ gave it to me.

Who's 'she', again? Spike told me something…but…I forgot…

I pick up the shirt and shake it out to hang it up. There are smudges on the shoulders. They're dirty fingerprints. As if someone had grabbed me. And finally I remember something.

__

Spike kissed me.

I stand there, stunned. And through the connecting doors, I hear him singing faintly.

"Gimme one more night, gimme that one more night, he says, gimme one more night, but I can't wait forever…"


	4. Pirithous' Regrets

Chapter 4: Pirithous' Regrets

All right, folks, time to learn a little bit of humanities.

Persephone, the demi-goddess of flowers and daughter of Demeter, the goddess of the seasons, was kidnapped and forced to become the wife of Hades, the King of the Underworld. Because she ate six pomegranate seeds while below, she had to remain with her husband for six months of every year. Hence, fall and winter. Sounds great, doesn't it? Read on.

Later on, an intensely foolish young man, named Pirithous, decided that since Persephone had been kidnapped once, he was going to do it _again._ (Note: you can't kidnap gods and goddesses. It _never_ turns out well.) He talked Theseus, a clever young man and the future founder of Athens, into helping him. The pair went down to the Underworld and explained to Hades that they intended to kidnap his wife. Hades smiled (when Death is smiling at you, it's time to get the car and leave) and invited them to sit in a chair that he had provided so that they could discuss the matter a little further. When the men sat down, their memories were instantly erased, and they couldn't remember how to stand back up. Hercules eventually rescued Theseus, ripping off part of his thighs in the process (don't you just _love_ these sorts of punishments?). But Pirithous was condemned to stay put.

There you have your lesson in Classic Greek Mythology. Go impress someone.

And if you can't figure out how all of that related to the story, I'm not sure what else to tell you besides, "Read it again." And think about what Pirithous _lost._

When I wake up, it's broad daylight. I look at the bedside clock blearily. 10 a.m.? Ridiculous! But I do recall being outside at 2:30 a.m. Stupid fire safety equipment. 

I sit up, grumbling some more. Stupid hangover. Stupid bright sunlight increasing the stupid hangover. Stupid casino party. Stupid Jet for mentioning an event with free alcohol to me.

Stupid me for wanting to be with the bastard in the first place. Hell, we could have humped like dogs all night and he'd be none the wiser. I stand up, furious, and a gleam of plastic on the bedside table catches my red eyes.

'Free hot breakfast. Served until 11 a.m.'

Breakfast!… I'm not hungry, but a Prairie Oyster might hit the spot. And after that…I'll be hungry. I get dressed and rush out of my room.

I make it upstairs to the breakfast room twenty minutes later. Running in a building made of blindingly shiny glass while hungover is a _horrible _idea. But I'm here now, and I'm in front of the omelet cook with a rocks glass. He stares at me, revolted. "You want _what?"_

"An egg," I answer, shaking the glass at him. "Just put it in there, and a little Tabasco and cayenne too, if you don't mind."

He does, giving me one of the dirtier looks that I've gotten during this trip. Screw him. That's why he makes omelets. I take a small plate and grab some dainty-looking pastries, an apple, and three slices of ham. It's a strange combination, to be sure. I trot away from the line and make my way towards the dining area. 

There are several empty tables, but I'm looking at a large, balding man sitting alone near a window. I'm torn as to whether or not I want to sit with him. Just as I decide to walk away, he looks up, eyes filled with guilt. It's decided; I sit across from him.

He's already eaten. A few assorted chunks of fruit and cheese remain, but his plate is pushed away from him. He looks deeply upset. Wisely, I choose not to say anything, and begin on my own food.

I've gulped down the Prairie Oyster and half of the ham is gone before he begins to talk. "When I woke up this morning, I made a call to the ISSP and asked to speak to Roderick about this case."

I raise an eyebrow. "And?"

Jet looks at me, worry lines visible. "Roderick's been dead for two years, Spike."

My fork falls to the table, unheeded. "He's _what?"_

He bows his head, looking defeated. "At this point, I don't even know whom I spoke with. Most of the officers had their memories purged concerning this bounty, because of the risk of long-term complications. There may be three people in the entire system that could give me information on this case. And even then it may not be any good. There's no guarantee that it's reliable." 

"What about this case file?"

"It's documentation of what happened to the officers. There's very little about the actual suspect, because people couldn't remember things from one day to the next."

I pop a cream puff into my mouth and try to make some sense of this situation. But there's nothing to put together. We're still at square one. "Was there ever any sort of profile made on this guy?"

Jet thinks about it. "I think that all they could glean was that he had security issues. And most likely no one had ever noticed him much, hence this constant desire to meddle in others' business." 

I immediately think of the man that I just barely noticed last night. _Maybe?_

Jet's staring out of the window at the city. 

I swallow my mouthful of food and steal a few grapes from his plate. "What say I follow up on a possible lead? If it comes to nothing, we're checking out at 4 and getting off this case. Deal?"

Jet nods slowly. "I don't have any other suggestions." 

"Are you beginning to remember anything?"

"Just one thing. But I don't want to say it out loud. I'm afraid to jinx it."

I snort, but shrug. Who could blame the poor man for being superstitious at this point?

After we're both done eating, I head down to the front desk to talk with the clerk on duty. I describe the man that I saw last night, but predictably enough, she doesn't know who he is. The main phone line rings, and she gives me the universal sign for 'one moment' as she answers. "Front desk, this is Graciella."

She listens, then repeats the voice on the other end. "Room 618? One moment, please."

I wrinkle my forehead. That's Jet's room…who would be calling there? When she hangs up, I ask her a question. "If you don't mind telling me, that call you placed to room 618, was it internal or external?"

"Internal," she says as she flips through a sheaf of paperwork. I thank her and leave, feeling puzzled. All I can do at this point is tell Jet what I know; maybe he knows a little more. After taking the elevator to floor six, I advance towards Jet's room and knock. There's no answer, even though I can hear him on the phone. I knock more urgently before stopping to listen through the door.

"Where are you? Why are you doing this?"

His breathing is harsh, strangled. I begin to fumble for my room keys. Maybe he's left his connecting door open.

I burst into my room and through the two doors in time to see him collapse from the bed. I snatch up the receiver as I'm feeling for his pulse. "Hello? Hello?"

"Ah, it's you. I thought that I asked Mr. Black to come alone."

"Sorry, I don't take too well to being left behind." He's got a pulse; that's good. His breathing is shallow and he's clammy. Shock? "Mind telling me what you did to him?"

"Just a little…persuasion. Psychic suggestion, if you will. He should wake up in no time."

Jet's eyes stir, and I breathe out a sigh of relief. The voice laughs. "You two are close, aren't you? Yes, indeed…too bad he doesn't remember."

"Who the hell are you?" I'm beginning to get angry. I look at the display on the phone console, hoping to see the number of an incoming extension, but it's blank.

"I'm just a voice. Just a voice on the other side of the phone. And I'm just talking to you…"

A wave of numbness begins to creep over my senses. I have to fight to pull the phone away from my ear as I feel myself fall forward.

Jet catches me, just barely. I hit his body hard, and we both grunt. The receiver is squawking at us, but I barely hear it. His dark blue eyes have that frightening, glazed look to them again. My heart sinks. "Jet?"

"Yeah?" His voice is hardly strong enough to be called quiet. 

"What did he say?"

"He said that he was going to give me a dreamless sleep." He finally looks at me, and his face becomes disoriented. "And by the way, who are you?"

We've been here for twenty minutes. Both of us are anxiously looking at the phone. And while we wait for it to ring again, the man on the other end of the bed tries to explain to me that he's my partner. But it seems so…wrong.

I know who my partner is. And I know who Spike Spiegel is. What's this guy got to do with either of them?

The man stands and rakes his hands through thick, bushy green hair. Didn't my partner have short, brown hair? He's clearly exasperated. "I'm Spike, and your partner."

I shake my head. "Were you in the ISSP?"

He sighs. "No, I'm a former member of the Syndicate. The Red Dragons. A _former_ member."

I stand up, not wanting to hear any more. "You're not my partner. And you're not Spike. I don't know who you are. Get out of my room."

The man looks aghast, but I can't help it. If he's not who he claims to be, why let him stick around? When he doesn't leave, I let a slight edge of anger creep into my voice. "If you're not out of here in ten seconds, I'll put you out."

He stands his ground, squaring his slim shoulders. "I'd like to see you try."

I can feel my eyes narrowing, even as I admire his obstinacy. Such a scrawny guy…I'll try to take it easy on him. I make a grab for his wrist, but he surprises me by sliding through my hand with a quick twist. 

__

I never saw anyone do that besides Spike.

The calm over, the storm breaks over both of us. I grab him in a bear hug, crushing until he goes limp. Just as I'm about to toss him into the hall, the phone rings.

For a moment, I hesitate. I don't know this guy. I've got to get him out of my room…

…but he's completely still. I look back quickly to make sure that I haven't killed him, before dumping him on the floor and dashing back for the phone. I already know who it is. "Where are you?" 

"The boiler room, Jet. The place where all the pressure comes together. Are you ready to see me face to face?"

"How do I get there?"

"Take the stairs down to Basement Two. The door's unlocked. You'll find me…in there."

I hang up the phone and turn to leave. The man's awake, and blocking the door. Damn it…should have kicked him out.

__

Spike was really good at faking faints, wasn't he?

"Where are you going?"

"Out. And so are you." I flip the light switch off, and the room instantly is shrouded in an artificial dusk. "If you don't leave now, I won't be so gentle with you this time."

"I won't leave until you tell me where the hell you're going, Jet!" He slams a fist against the wall. 

Who does he think he is…? I grab him again and toss him in the closet, holding the door shut with my weight. The jar from his pounding does little to shake me. "Jet! Open the door, damn it!"

With my right leg, I finagle until I can drag a chair my way. Wedging the chair against the doorknob, I tell him to quit making so much racket. He demands to know where I'm going, but I'm not telling this guy anything. Should have kicked him out of the room. 

The noise picks up again as I leave the room.

Two and a half minutes and thirty irate phone calls later, a small contingency of security guards was headed up towards the sixth floor. Apparently some nut job in 618 was screaming at the top of his lungs. They found the room, and the source of the noise, easily enough; the guy was yelling loudly enough to be heard clear down the hall.

Opening the room door, they took the chair from behind the closet door, and immediately a lanky man propelled himself right out of the closet into the startled men's faces. There was about thirty seconds of intense confusion before the guards realized that their prey was long gone.

"Where is he? Have you seen a tall, black man wearing an olive green shirt and black pants? Yes, he's got metal on his face. Did you see him? For god's sake, where is he?"

Spike was running down the stairwell, asking everyone he met about Jet. He got conflicting reports. Some thought they had seen him headed towards the bar. Others said he was in the pool area. One person had to think about it for a while, but finally said something that made Spike's blood grow ice-cold with fear. 

"He was headed downstairs, towards the basement."

"Shit!" Spike hissed as he thundered down the stairs. A large, painted number 1 on the wall let him know that he was somewhat closer. "Why did he go down here?" The basement door loomed and he jerked on it frantically. Locked. He reeled back to kick the door in, when he heard faint voices somewhere beneath him.

__

"You're here. What are you trying to find now, your partner?" 

__

"I don't have a partner."

"Then why do you keep looking around, as if you expected someone to come?"

"Why are you doing this?"

"You ought to know…you trained me, after all."

Spike crept down the last remaining flight of stairs, straining to hear. It was dark and mind-numbingly hot. He reached for his gun, with no success. _It's in the safe deposit box at the front desk. Damn it…_

The voices were more audible, but still quiet.

__

"I trained you? I don't even know you!"

"No one ever really did…but I didn't expect to hear that from you, 'Black Dog'. Or is it 'Red Bull' now?"

There was silence, and then that familiar, pathetic mantra.

__

"I…can't remember…"

Spike reached the door at last. A metal sign warned him to keep out if he was not authorized. Ignoring this, he marched straight in.

The room was dimly lit by a red safety lamp. Perfect for multiple assailants. But of course, the only person visible was Jet, who stood there, drenched with sweat and gun drawn. At the sound of Spike's approach, he wheeled around and pointed the gun Spike's way. His eyes were filled with irrational fear. "Back off!"

Spike faltered, wanting to help his friend. But at this point, could he actually be any help? "Jet, it's Spike. Your partner. Your friend."

A shot ricocheted close to his feet. Jet took a nervous step backwards. "You're not my partner! I don't know who you are!"

"Jet –" There was another shot, and he decided against going any closer. "I'm Spike. We live together on the _Bebop._ I fly the _Swordfish_, and you fly the _Hammerhead."_

"Anyone could have told you that."

"The shower's screwed up."

Jet wavered.

"We have a Welsh Corgie. His name is Ein. He's smart as hell."

The disembodied voice began again. _"Who is this 'we'? Jet, you know who Spike is, don't you? What he looks like? Does that look like Spike?"_

Spike glanced at himself. Of all the days to wear something different…he had on a black hooded sweatshirt and gray cargo pants. His hair, soaked with perspiration, lay limp and flat against his neck. Of course he _looked_ different. He tried again. "Jet, look at my eyes."

Jet looked, suspiciously. "They're brown. Lots of people have brown eyes." 

"But remember, my eyes don't match because one of them is fake." He tapped the glass eye, unflinchingly, with a fingernail.

__

"Oh, big deal. Lots of people can do that, too. Tell me, why are you_ here? Being nosy?"_

"I'm here for my friend."

__

"Friends…how so? Spike Spiegel never once told Jet Black that he cared about him."

Jet confirmed this in a hopeless voice. "Spike…didn't care…"

"Jet, you're wrong!" the green-haired man cried. "I _did_ care! Every time that I screwed up and you came looking for me, I was glad! Every meal you ever took time to make for me, I was grateful! Even when you yelled at me, deep down I was happy that someone out there gave a damn whether I lived or died. I just never knew how to express that."

Jet looked surprised, and doubtful. "So why can you say it so well now?"

"I tried to say it once before."

Jet blinked.

"On the plane. But then…you didn't really respond, and then you started to forget everything, and I thought, 'He doesn't care about _me.'_" Spike moved a little closer; Jet had forgotten to back away. "But I think that I was wrong. And if you want to try again, I want to try again."

The voice muttered in the background, but neither hunter heard. For a few brief, awe-inspiring moments, Jet's eyes seemed to see. But just as quickly, they lapsed back into gloom. "You sound like him…but you're too gentle. Spike was always…so cold…"

The voice played on this instantly. _"Not even women cared about you like this. Why would a man bother? Besides, Spike was too proud to tell you that you were important to him."_

Jet fought, conflicted. "But…there's something I remember…in the elevator…Spike was mad…but …"

"I _was_ mad, Jet." A note of desperation was in Spike's voice. He could feel his own sanity beginning to crack. "I thought that you were playing games. But I wanted to be sure, and that night, you made me sure. After that night, I finally had some hope that we could understand each other, and that we could be real friends, and not be too proud to show each other that we cared. That was why I kissed you."

That light of comprehension was back. Jet shook his head, as if he were waking up from a dream. "That's right. Spike…kissed me." It wasn't a question; it was a statement. He _knew. _He looked at the man across from him and pointed excitedly. "You're Spike, aren't you?!"

"_Yes."_ Spike clenched his fists, victorious at last. "I'm Spike."

The voice behind them shrieked. "No! How…!"

Jet spun around and shot into the darkness, but a scuttling shadow on the wall let the two hunters know that he had missed. A pipe groaned as thick steam billowed into the room, whistling loudly.

In the distance, the fire alarms could be heard.

Jet waved his partner away. "Let me handle this, if you don't have a gun. And Spike –"

"What?"

"Don't look into his eyes. That's the easiest way for him to get inside your head."

Spike made a quick dash beyond the cloud of steam. Even from that distance, it obscured his vision and set his skin ablaze. _Damn this fool… _He saw a form moving stealthily behind him, but it was Jet, who seemed equally surprised to see him. "Spike? Did he slip past?"

The sound of metal dragging the floor made them both look up. An Allen wrench was headed their way. Jet caught it easily, flinging it back. It clanged into the underside of the catwalk above them, and they both clearly heard a yelp of fright. Spike didn't wait for any further instructions, dashing away. 

By the time Jet found a staircase that led to the upper part of the boiler room, his partner had cornered a wriggling form behind a tangle of pipes. The same, oily voice was speaking, but it was no longer smooth, in control. It was now frightened and babbling and incomprehensible. Jet approached with a pilfered flashlight in hand, and the man began to shake with terror. As he clicked the light on, their quarry flinched away as if the light had burned him. The bigger man squinted in the sudden flood of light, then recoiled. 

"Roderick?!"


	5. The road less traveled

Chapter 5: The Road Less Traveled

This is the _denouement._ The "talkity-talk" chapter. And it took me quite a while to write, simply because there's so much motive to account for. Ugh. Ambition…out…of control… 

Overall, the moral of the story is: tell your friends that you care. Even if they're not terribly emotional. Some days it can make all the difference in the world.

A big "thank you" to everyone who took time out of their busy schedules to review, and hopefully I'll have more for you to read in the near future.

The guests in the hotel murmured gently against having been told that they would have to vacate the property once more.

"This is the second _fucking_ time! What the hell is wrong with you people!…" a man shouted at the trembling clerks before a burly security guard approached. "Is there something that _I_ can help you with, sir?"

With all of the attention suddenly on him, the smaller man became significantly less aggressive. "I just wanted to know what was going on…"

"There's been a valve explosion in the boiler room."

Understanding _ahhs_ echoed through the lobby.

"For your own safety, we're asking you to leave."

The crowds obediently left, streaming out into the parking lot. Very few people noticed a police car hidden behind the fire trucks, with two men talking to the handcuffed prisoner in the back seat.

"…why did you do it?"

The man whom the question was addressed to spoke slowly, thickly. To prevent the danger of his attempting to talk his way out of going to jail, he had been forcibly given a shot of Novocain. "I…needed someone, Jet. After you left, there was no one else there who cared."

"You played with people's heads because you didn't want to be alone?" Spike queried.

"You don't understand." The voice had lost its air of authority. Now it was a shadow of itself. "I dedicated my life to the ISSP, and they ran me straight into the ground. They…destroyed me. And there was no Jet there, with high moral standards to keep the place from spiraling out of control." He looked up at them, his pale, nebbish-looking face framed with a huge set of glasses. His magnified eyes begged for their empathy. "I lost my mind because of them, and they wanted nothing to do with me once I was declared 'insane'. It was like my family disowning me. Don't you understand, Jet?"

Solemnly, Jet answered, "Understand destroying people's lives? Not at all."

Roderick's face became downcast. "I…I thought…I _hoped_ that you would. That was why I called you!" He clutched at the grill that covered the window. "Please don't let them take me, Jet! These are my brothers! You were like my father! Jet, _do something!"_

Jet stared out at the horizon, mute.

"Jet!" His voice became piercing in its level of frenzy. It was the voice of a child being separated forever from its security blanket. "Please! I don't want to be alone again!"

"Roderick," Jet said gently, in the voice of a parent soothing said child. "You're an adult. Adults have to do things that they absolutely despise. And a lot of the time, being an adult means being alone, whether physically, mentally, or psychologically. You have to learn to rely on yourself, and stop blaming everyone else."

The man cringed as an officer began to head towards the car. "But…then the voices come…and I don't to hear the voices…I can't sleep when I hear them…they scare me…" He muttered brokenly as the man began to prepare to leave. He reached into his hip pocket and handed Spike an authorization card. "Use this to get your reward. Thanks for catching this crackhead for us, guys."

Jet's face suddenly became stern. "Wasn't he a former officer of the ISSP?"

"Yeah," the younger man said, unconcerned. "That's what I heard. But no one there's gonna claim a loony like him."

Jet rapped on the window of the car. When it rolled down, he grabbed the sill and leaned his head down to speak. He didn't adopt that pose too often, but Spike could recall having been on the receiving end of that look, maybe twice. It had always made him feel about two inches tall. "Son, listen to me. When you get back to your HQ, you take a little time out of your day and look up 'Roderick Watson', circa 2067 – 2070, and see if you can accomplish half of what he did in twice as much time. And remember, you may not be as intelligent as he is, but you can definitely get to where he's at now."

Penitent, the officer nodded quickly before pulling away. Spike glanced at Jet, who once again was staring out at a distant point on the horizon. "What was that all about?"

Jet didn't look at him. "I'll tell you later…when I remember it all."

There was no answer to that. So Spike did the only thing that he could: placed a kiss on Jet's forehead before going back towards the mass of people still waiting near the entrance of La Maison Vert.

I emerge from the shower, clean and slightly less anxious for the first time in a day and a half. Checkout time has passed. Since we're going to be charged for a whole new night's stay, I've decided that we should just stay another night. I call Silver Stream to confirm a departure time, and place a second call to the front desk to ask about shuttle service. I am informed that we will need to be in the lobby at 3:45 a.m. to make a 6 a.m. flight. I hate jet airlines. Jet can't give me enough money to convince me to fly in one again after this hunt.

Speaking of which, where _is_ Jet? The sky is beginning to get awfully dark. I get dressed and wander downstairs. 

By the time I reach the lobby, it's pouring. And naturally, he's still outside, getting soaked. He hasn't budged from where I left him earlier. I go to the main doors and shout his name, but he doesn't hear me. I grumble a little as I go out into literal sheets of rain to get him. 

"Jet," I call before grabbing his shoulder. He looks at me, face serious. But his eyes are Jet's eyes. I'm deeply relieved. "We need to go inside. There's going to be lightning striking soon."

He doesn't answer immediately, but he lets me lead him back in, drawing a few groans from the long-suffering custodian who is bearing a mop.

Once we're upstairs and in his room, we go in the bathroom so as not to ruin any of the furniture. He leans against the sink's counter, and I sit on the tub. The obvious question is then asked. "Why were you standing out there in the rain?"

He doesn't answer right away, choosing his words carefully. "When Roderick first joined the ISSP, I was partnered with him as a mentor. I liked him because he was anxious to learn everything that he possibly could about the system, and I taught him everything that I could. I guess I didn't realize that I was teaching him all of my morals as well."

I marvel at how he's managed to completely avoid my question. "Jet –"

"It wasn't fair of me to force _my_ morals on_ him._ I should have seen, should have known…" He stops, stares at himself at the mirror. When he begins again, his voice is soft, and remorseful. "I knew that I was respected in the ISSP, if not liked. But I was okay with standing completely alone to uphold my morals. Roderick couldn't be like that. He admired my morals, but he tried to follow my way, when he wasn't _me._ And when I left, he was just…there, twisting in the wind." He turns away to stare at the floor again. "When you make a conscious decision to be a whistleblower, you have to be willing to stand alone. Roderick needed the approval of others so badly. He wasn't capable of standing alone." He finally looks at me, with tormented eyes. "I could have done so much more for him, Spike. If I had known what he really needed, when he needed it…I would have done so many things differently." A sigh. "He really was like my son." 

I sit there silently as he walks out of the bathroom. My questions seem a little trite at this point.

I can hear the communications link start up. Jet's talking to a colleague, asking for something. The printer attached to the computer begins to whine cheerfully.

"Spike," Jet's deep voice rumbles, "come here and look at this."

There's four pages of printed materials on the bed by now. I look at the top of the first one. 'Roderick Watson. Served in the ISSP from 2067 – 2070.' Everything following is a compilation of his accomplishments. I whistle. "He did all this in just three years?"

"He was brilliant," Jet answers. "He practically rewrote the book on hostage negotiations as we now know it. He had a knack for being able to calm down very irate people, defusing explosive situations. So far, he's still the only ISSP officer with a perfect negotiation record."

"What happened to him? Why did they tell you he was dead?"

Jet shakes his head sorrowfully. "He tried to follow my road. But it wasn't meant for him. He wasn't strong enough to stand up under petty jealousy and office politics. He became paranoid, thinking that everyone was against him, and he went insane. The ISSP no longer claims him as an officer after June 30, 2070. That was when he was admitted to Bellefleur Sanitarium."

"But he wasn't completely insane by that point, was he?"

"Not entirely. He still had a lot of his mind left when they originally took him there. But he drove himself mad by blaming fellow officers for his problems. By the time that he was able to break out – by 'convincing' a driver to take a detour – he had a pretty healthy hatred for the ISSP."

I frown, playing with my lighter. "He still wanted to be part of it, though."

Jet nods. "He couldn't understand why they were sending ISSP officers to capture him. To him, they were practically family. I'm quite sure that's the only reason he just sent them away with jumbled memories, and didn't kill them."

"But the bounty hunters –"

"Were dangerous," Jet finishes. "They were a real threat. They had to die."

We both fall silent. The printer's done. Jet looks at the last line on the paper. "'Officer reported deceased October 17, 2070.' That's the date that they sent the contingent against him."

"They disowned him."

"And killed him, essentially."

"But he wanted to see you again."

"I suppose." Jet scratches his ear. "I was one of the last people left that he had a direct tie to. And I hadn't been in the original raid, so I didn't know what he had become. Details on his condition were kept very well-guarded. He was quite an embarrassment, you see. A black sheep."

With that, Jet lapses into silence once again. I get up, leaving him alone with his thoughts, and go back into my room to think this whole thing over by myself.

__

A man, once in love with the idea of doing good, became twisted with bitterness and eventually went insane. Why? He didn't want to be alone. 

I light a cigarette, even though the room was non-smoking, and muse. It's rather ironic, in an age of high-tech communication, it could still be so hard for people to genuinely connect. It makes me that much more grateful for what I had had to confess to Jet, even if the confession was made under duress. It's always nice to have a friend who could see me with my warts and all, and still like me.

"This room is non-smoking, Spike." A metal hand plucks my cigarette out of my mouth and crushes it. Despite the loss of my crutch, I smile. The old Jet Black is definitely back. 

"I've been thinking about something."

"What's that?" My heart begins to beat a little faster.

"Roderick called me out here by waving a bounty in front of my nose. And he wanted me to come alone. In retrospect, I think that was because he wanted things to be the way they had been. When I told him that I was bringing you along, he was really upset, and I couldn't figure out why. But I think that I know why now."

I lay back to listen. He continues on. "When he and I worked together, he always told me that he had never had a real friend except for me. I think that when he knew that you were coming along with me, he thought that perhaps he was being…replaced, that I had simply moved on from the friendship that he and I had. But then…" Jet draws a pattern on the floor with the toe of his shoe. I recognize this; he does it when he's nervous. "He…began to think that we were something more, and _I_ began to wonder if you were wanting something more. And that's why he kept tearing my memories away, so that we wouldn't be able to trust each other." He coughs out a dry little cough, another nervous habit. "He never knew a friendship like that, strong enough to make friends willing to die for one another. It made him envious."

I place my sharp chin on top of folded hands. "_Are_ we something more, Jet?"

He takes my hands, standing me up. "I never really thought that I could move on from Alisa. And I know that a big part of you still wants to be with Julia. But if you're ready to try again, I'm willing to try, too."

I wrest one of my hands from his, letting it run down his chest, and unbutton his shirt along the way. And so, we try again.

It's only 8:30 p.m., but we're both wiped out. It's an unusual end to an unusual day. 

We made love four times before Spike was too tired to continue. And then we moved into my room, because no matter how sexy musk and sweat smell _during_ sex, _after _sex the stench is unbearable. So we've both showered and ordered room service, and subsequently taken up residence in my bed, which is still too short for my legs. We're lying at odd angles, watching 'Big Shot'. Of course, they're talking about Roderick Watson, the rogue ISSP officer turned criminal. The ISSP refuses to comment on the case, citing 'sensitive issues'. Spike snorts derisively. "They just want to cover their own asses."

"Always," I murmur absently. I'm running my fingers through his thick hair, wanting to draw him closer. There was no way to make up for so many months of complacency in three steamy hours, but we've got some more time together.

He grazes my cheek with those rough fingers, and we're kissing again in no time. I like Spike. I like the feverish urgency of his intimacy. I like his realistic approach: he's under no illusions that we're going to be together forever. But we can satisfy each other's short-term needs right now, and we've always got our friendship to fall back on if this doesn't work out.

Briefly, I think about Roderick, the intensity of the jealousy he must have felt, and pity him.

Spike's dragging his heels behind me as we trudge through EnE. Our luggage is on the plane already, and we're about to give the ticket agent our return flight stubs. The flight crew bustles past us, and we both see Elayne. Spike groans and tries to hide behind me. "Please, please god, let her be on another flight."

"She's on our flight," I say, trying to hide a grin. "You didn't see her on the shuttle this morning?"

"No," he mutters unhappily. "Well, as long as we don't end up with a six-hour layover, I guess it's okay." 

"It's going to _have_ to be okay," I respond as we head out to the runway. One lonely jet is waiting for us early-morning commuters. "We're pretty much stuck with her." We're herded into the cabins, and before long, we're sitting in our leather seats, being promised coffee and breakfast. Spike has once again claimed the window seat.

Elayne comes by, bearing orange juice. "You guys again! Did you have fun on your trip?"

Spike leans over me to take a glass. "Sure did. Best vacation ever."

"Vacation?" I ask wonderingly.

"Yep. Remember, we said that we were going to get away for a while and see the rest of the world?"

"Aww, that's so cute," she titters. "How long have you two been a couple?"

"In three days, it will have been two years," Spike blurts out. I've got to stop this. If it gets any more sugary, we're all going to have diabetes.

"Wow, an _anniversary!" _She takes off and I give him an evil look. He grins. "C'mon, play along."

Within a minute and a half, the entire flight crew, even the pilots, has surrounded our seats, and is singing to us. Spike's thoroughly enjoying it. I'm trying not to squirm too much. Am I…blushing? Oh, god. Mercifully, the song ends soon, and they return to their stations. 

Everyone in the whole damned plane is staring at us now. 

The pilot begins his pre-flight address, and people gradually begin to mind their own business. Spike pokes me apologetically. "Sorry. I guess I'm just a cheesy boyfriend at heart." He squeezes my hand, slyly, and goes back to staring out over the tarmac.

I smile to myself as I recline the seat a little. I think that I like him even better than Georgia Peach Brandy.

FIN


End file.
